


Winning Personality

by Agoodcaptain



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M, Post retirement Cooky, Root/Buttler referenced, Sports Personality of the Year, boys getting dressed up, boys missing each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 09:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20889614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agoodcaptain/pseuds/Agoodcaptain
Summary: Before the Sports Personality of the Year awards (2019), Jimmy waits for Cooky to join him for a drink. Soppy boys missing each other with some smutty references but not a lot of explicit stuff, mainly fluffiness for you my friends.





	Winning Personality

In a London hotel room, a young man from Lancashire sits on the edge of a bed, bare feet scrunched into the carpet, fingers scratching at the mattress and curling into his palms, clenching. Fifteen years later, just a hundred miles down the road, he’s sat in a similarly swanky hotel room – not that man notices – he was still the same nervous mess.  
“Get a hold of yourself, James,” he scolds himself internally.

Back in 2003, on a balmy May night, Jimmy Anderson was about to make his England test debut - that was something to be anxious about, that was a real reason to get worked up. Tonight he was waiting to go to an awards show, not something he’d usually be bothered about, and honestly he couldn’t give flying fuck whose name was written inside the envelope, he was shocked to be nominated at all. No, it was the person he was waiting for that was causing the fingernail-shaped welts in his palm, the person accompanying him to the awards show, his ‘date’. Even without being spoken out loud that word dried his mouth, and tightened around his chest like the stupid elasticated belts they sometimes wore in training hooked up to monitors to track their heart rate. 

“They’re not stupid Jim, they’re helpful,” Alastair would be saying if he could hear Jimmy’s internal monologue - a terrifying idea that would’ve caused Jimmy’s monitor to explode.  
“They look like sports bras,” Jimmy would’ve retorted, always one to lower the tone.  
“How old are you, Jim? Come on, I know you have the stamina of a teenager, but…”  
Here the imaginary conversation started to falter, the version of Ali Jimmy had concocted in his head was getting a little fuzzy. Ali wouldn’t have said that last part, it was always Jimmy making filthy comments, and Ali blushing up to his ears in response. He needed to see him in the flesh to cement an image of him again, to store away for a rainy day; when Ali got here, he’d have a good hard stare. If he got here. They said they’d meet at 5:30 in Jimmy’s hotel room for a quick drink before they were due to be at the arena, but it was already quarter to, and Ali was never late. 

“He won’t be coming,” Jimmy intoned, out loud this time.  
The ridiculousness of the picture was not lost on Jimmy.  
“Pathetic,” Jimmy couldn’t help but mutter, adding to the lame picture he was rapidly building.  
Suddenly decisive, Jimmy marched to the desk and grabbed both glasses of scotch he had poured out. He gulped down one much too quickly, burning his throat.  
“Pathetic, sad little loser; you’re acting like a-“  
Jimmy’s self-flagellation was interrupted – with a somewhat Hollywood sense of timing – by a knock at the door, halting the glass he was raising to his lips to swallow the second drink while he thought of a suitable insult to chastise himself with. 

Jimmy straightened his suit; stupid considering the effect was already ruined by his bare feet. He waited an extra moment at the door wondering if a second irritated knock would come. Of course it didn’t, Ali was far too patient for that. Jimmy smiled at how well he knew his former captain, his nerves easing slightly. Finally, Jimmy brought himself to open the door, and the sight that greeted him on the other side sent a monitor-shattering bolt through his chest and very quickly he was far more on edge than before. 

After they stop playing at the top level, some sportsmen seem to fall apart very quickly, as if all that was holding them back from complete middle-aged decrepitude was the rigours of match days and training. Alastair was never going to be one of those; he had probably risen early on his first morning back at the farm and ran the hills before feeding the chickens and milking the cows. With the way he filled out his nicely snug suit, Alastair looked like he hadn’t gained an inch of fat anywhere since international retirement. Jimmy’s gaze must have dwelled a little too long on Ali’s lean form, his face betraying a little too much of what he was thinking because Ali started to blush across his glass-cut cheeks while staring at the floor. Trying not to acknowledge Jimmy’s blatant leering, or even look at him, in case he couldn’t help leering right back, Ali looked up at Jimmy through those dark eyelashes and asked with teenage-boy bashfulness, “Can I come in?”

Jimmy came back to earth with a disappointing thud, deadened by the plush hotel hallway carpet, and stepped back to allow Ali into the room.  
“Course,” Jimmy mumbled belatedly as Ali passed by him, seemingly closer to Jimmy than the far wall, but that might have been Jimmy’s wishful thinking.  
“Save any of that scotch for me?” Ali asked, feigning breeziness. Rather than respond, all Jimmy could think about was that Ali had got close enough to him to smell the whiskey on his breath.  
“Er, yeah, definitely.” Jimmy finally gathered himself enough to reply, busying himself with pouring out new drinks.  
Ali’s slender fingers wrapped around the bottle when Jimmy put it down, and stroked its label in such a languid manner that Jimmy assumed he had to be doing it on purpose.  
“Glenfarclas. You remembered.” Ali turned a soppy smile on Jimmy. That smile could take down walls, turn the tide, and dismantle empires, at least that was the how it seemed to Jimmy.  
“Lucky guess,” Jimmy grinned.  
Ali took a sip of whiskey as he drank Jimmy in, his well-fitted suit, tight in all the right places, down to his bare feet. Ali playfully nudged Jimmy with his newly shined Brogues. 

And just like that the tension between them was gone, the air thinned once again and Jimmy could breathe; all the weeks apart faded and things seemed to ease back to normal, like a faded sweater returning to its proper shape after a wash. But before Jimmy could properly catch his breath, Ali took it away again by slamming down his glass and grabbing Jimmy’s face in a rare moment of spontaneity and kissing him fully on the mouth. Jimmy didn’t take long to respond and their lips quickly found their old rhythm. Unlike many of their old encounters, their hands didn’t roam around, exploring each other’s bodies with deft hands. Instead Ali’s long fingers framed Jimmy’s face while Jimmy rested his comfortably on Ali’s hips. They didn’t break the kiss for more than a minute and both men were breathless when they did so.  
“Sorry,” Ali whispered in typically English fashion, “I just… missed you.”  
“Me too,” Jimmy said when he found his voice again, and snatched Ali back to him, finding his soft lips once more. 

In the past there were times when they didn’t know when they’d next see each other, or at least when they didn’t know when they’d next get to be alone. They’d shared mournful glances across the pavilion balconies as Ali shook his head “no” – the Essex coach was about to leave, no time for anything but a brief snog around a quiet corner. And when Lancashire got relegated to Division Two a few years ago, there were a couple of outings crossed off the calendar, some dinner plans reluctantly cancelled. But there was always England. That was their bread and butter, their regular nourishment; tours and hotels, ‘downtime’ after training when most of their teammates had chosen to nap or play endless games of FIFA, staying late after stumps to fill historical locker rooms with the basest noises known to man or beast. So when that was taken away… bereft was an understatement. Jimmy’s life wasn’t missing its cherry on top; the whole damn pie was gone. Ali and Jimmy were never lacking in the passion department but the grabbing, growling greed of this kiss was new. Like the heavens opening on a parched outfield when you need a miracle for a draw, they held their hands out to each other in grateful supplication, absorbing their fill as long as they could, for who knows when it will rain again? 

Finally, they detached themselves slightly, still holding onto each other by the shoulders a little too firmly as if some unknown force was trying to pull them apart. With some reluctance, Ali checked his watch, more for the show of doing it than anything else – who was he really kidding?  
“What time are we supposed to be there?” Ali breathed, still recovering from their epic teenage make-out session.  
“Now,” Jimmy replied but he wasn’t making any move to go, or even remove his hands from Ali’s shoulders. Ali waited, not wanting to be the first to say it.  
“I’m not going to win anyway,” Jimmy reasoned.  
“Cricketers never do, not mardy ones like you anyway.”  
“Fred won!” Jimmy retorted, unable to resist the prodding.  
“That was in 2005; everyone was cricket mad, and they thought Fred was this lovable idiot.”  
Jimmy nodded in agreement before Ali continued, “And everyone wanted to fuck him.”  
Jimmy grinned, that was certainly true. Sensing an opportunity to prod Ali right back he raised an eyebrow, and leaned into Ali, “And no one wants to fuck me?”  
Ali could barely breathe, such was his anticipation, and he drew in his lip, unwilling to be the first to break.  
“Nope,” Ali lied, letting out a low chuckle, “Too old.”  
“Mmmmmm, I see,” Jimmy’s voice was low, rich, deep.  
Unable to wait anymore, Ali grabbed Jimmy’s collar and pulled him into a rough and ready kiss. He ripped Jimmy’s jacket from him with little care for its hefty price tag and pushed Jimmy back onto the bed.  
“Careful of my hip,” Jimmy teased, propping himself up on his elbows as he waited with an eager grin for Ali to shed his own jacket and lower himself down onto Jimmy.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jimmy had finished smoothing out his tie in the mirror when Ali came up behind him, bending to rest his chin on Jimmy’s shoulder.  
“You look gorgeous, you know you do.”  
Jimmy couldn’t help but grin; Ali was right, he did know, but it was nicer to hear Ali say it. Jimmy resisted the urge to turn around and press a ‘thank you’ kiss into Ali’s lips, that would only sidetrack them all over again, and they were already so late. The moment passed, and after Ali stared at their image in the mirror for a while, he kissed Jimmy lightly on the shoulder and went off to find where on earth he’d thrown his shoes. 

Something had been bugging Jimmy since he first laid eyes on Ali, and without the distraction of his tongue or his cock in Jimmy’s mouth, he could finally put it into words, “You look so young. What is that?”  
“What’s what?” Ali was only half paying attention; having found one of his shoes in… the bin?  
“What’s your secret, Benjamin Button?”  
“I dunno, Jim.”  
“It’s just… I could swear there’s a 2011 Ashes glow about you.”  
“Is this an insult or a compliment?” Ali huffed, staggering ridiculously around the room, still one shoe down. Jimmy realised something, and said, simply, sadly, “Retirement suits you.”  
Ali forced a laugh, “Don’t relegate me to tractors and tweeds just yet. I’ve got a County title to win.”  
“You know what I mean.”  
Ali stopped looking for his shoe. He gave Jimmy a wistful half-smile; he did know.  
“I guess it does.”

Unwilling to dwell on the moment – for what good could it possibly do? – Ali resumed his search by dropping to the floor and peering under bed. He didn’t look up at Jimmy when he flippantly remarked, “Well I’m glad I could help you live out your twink fantasy, at least for one night.”  
Jimmy was too preoccupied - either by Ali’s wiggling arse or their previous conversation, he would never tell – to come up with a witty reply.  
Ali manoeuvred out and turned to face Jimmy, “What? No biting comeback? No… ‘Please, you say that like I’ve never had our twink of a captain in the showers.’”  
The attempt at Jimmy’s accent was a poor one, and hadn’t improved over the years. Jimmy had to laugh at it - it was adorable.  
“Sorry, I was too busy thinking about what that arse is going to do for me to cheer me up after I lose tonight.”  
Ali’s cheeks reddened but he was smiling.  
Jimmy continued, “Plus, we both know the only Lank the captain has eyes for is more about catching the ball than bowling it.”  
“True,” Ali conceded with a begrudging smile to match Jimmy’s utterly self-satisfied one. “But,” Ali went on, determined to gain the upper hand; “you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re getting anything more than a consolation handy when you lose. This is the Sports Personality of the Year not the PCA 2017.  
“Daylight robbery,” Jimmy muttered bitterly, “Bloody Samit Patel. Bloody Notts bias.”  
“I mean it was the evening, Notts bias is definitely not a thing, and it was over a year ago, but yeah.”  
Jimmy merely glowered in response, allowing Ali to sidle up to him slowly. Ali placed a firm hand on Jimmy’s chest, enjoying his enduring capacity to silence the older man with his mere proximity. Ali leaned in, tantalisingly close; his strong jaw millimetres from Jimmy’s hot cheek and whispered, “Now give me my fucking shoe back.”  
Jimmy wordlessly opened the wardrobe and guiltily handed over Ali’s brogue that he’d stashed there while Ali was cleaning up in the bathroom – why, he wasn’t exactly sure. 

Ali put on his shoe without breaking eye contact with Jimmy; his hungry look suggesting that Jimmy’s consolation prize was very much negotiable.  
“Let’s go then,” Jimmy growled, and Ali nodded his assent before walking past Jimmy and toward the door. Jimmy waited until Ali had reached the handle before leaning into him, his chest flush against Ali’s back and murmured, “And fix your tie young man. Can’t have my date being… unkempt.”  
Ali made a guttural sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a moan and, with great reluctance, opened the door, and with the sexiest, grumpiest man in cricket a few steps behind him – now why wasn’t there an award for that? – he left the room.


End file.
